Ichabod Crane vs the 21st Century
by Miss Maudlin
Summary: Ichabod Crane and the 21st century just don't mix.
1. 1 - Crane vs the Mall

Ichabod Crane vs. the 21st Century

#1 – Crane vs. the Mall

Abbie takes Crane to the mall in December. The Christmas trees, the music, the lights, even the cotton fake snow in some windows all distract Crane: "Miss Mills, why are there so many pine trees in this establishment? Miss Mills, must we listen to this Jingle Bells for the one-hundredth time? Miss Mills, why are children sitting on that corpulent gentleman's _lap?"_

"Crane, shut it." Abbie takes him by the wrist and drags him into the Gap. He stumbles before righting himself, brushing at imaginary dust on his shirtfront. Abbie knows he does this when he's embarrassed.

"Miss Mills, you do not have to take hold of my person in such a way," Crane intones in his most condescending Oxford voice.

Abbie rolls her eyes and heads to the men's section of the store. Crane has been wearing his 18th century clothes for weeks now and she's tired of looking at them. Abbie knows people are staring at them. People are always staring at them. She resists the urge to flip them off for their gawking. Rummaging through the wall of jeans, Abbie starts pulling out various sizes, cuts, and lengths. "30 by 32? No way, you're probably a 25 by 45, you're so damn tall and skinny…"

"I take offense to such an assessment." Crane is standing right over her shoulder, and she jumps a little at his voice. The asshole walks as quietly as a cat. Abbie shoves jeans into his arms as she continues to collect more pairs before moving on to shirts.

When he begins to protest the mountain of clothing she hands him, Abbie shoos him to the back of the store. "You need to try them on. I just guessed your size."

"I am to _undress_ in this establishment—"

"Yes, now go before I forcibly undress you in the middle of the store."

Crane huffs at her bad manners but refrains from answering similarly rudely. Abbie knows Crane abhors rudeness, so she makes a point to be as crass as possible just to ruffle his British feathers. She watches him walk to the dressing room. She doesn't admit that she's looking at his ass as he walks.

"Is he your boyfriend?" A teenage girl—Abbie imagines she's no more than fifteen or so—pops her gum. "He's hot."

Abbie glares at her, using her most intimidating cop stare. "Yes, now go away before I call your mom to tell her you're at the mall after curfew." The girl glares back at her before huffing off, her bracelets jangling and gum popping. _Juicy _is spelled across her butt in bright pink letters.

"Miss Mills, a word if you please." Crane has stuck his head out of one of the dressing rooms.

A male fitting room attendant flits around Crane. "Oh my, those jeans are so you," he exclaims. His hands seem like manic birds to Abbie.

She sees Crane about to remark on this odd specimen of male and speaks before he does. "What's up?"

"'What's up' is that these trousers are absurd." Abbie glances down and realizes Crane is wearing a pair of black skinny jeans. They aren't absurd on him, she admits—well, except for absurdly tight. He also wears one of the checked button-up shirts she'd thrown at him, and Abbie realizes he just needs a fedora and a scarf and he would make an exceptional hipster.

She steps back. Yes, Crane should wear skinny jeans all the time. "You look good as a hipster," she replies.

"Miss Mills, you cannot expect me to wear trousers that delineate every part of my anatomy—"

"Crane, calm down. Try on the ones called boot-cut."

The attendant is still fluttering. "Oh but sir, you do look divine in those jeans. Would you like for me to fetch another pair? We have some in gray, we may even have some white left over."

Crane frowns. "I assure you, my good man, I am not in need of any more of these—what did you call them?—_skinny jeans._"

"Let me find you some other pairs." The attendant flits off into the store, stars in his eyes.

"I think he likes you," Abbie jokes.

Crane opens and closes his mouth, frowns, furrows his eyebrows, opens his mouth to speak. "I will choose to ignore that remark," he says instead.

Abbie smiles. "No really. I think you found yourself a boyfriend. You should ask him out." Abbie watches as red slowly creeps up Crane's face. There's a special enjoyment in discomfiting this man, she thinks. Then she realizes she just thought the word "discomfiting" and knows it's from Crane. "Crane, try on the rest of the jeans so I can go home."

Crane shuts the dressing room door more forcefully than he probably intended. Abbie listens to him mutter to himself, and then hears him try to peel the skinny jeans off his tall frame. She imagines peeling off those jeans herself. Now it's her face that's heating up.

"These damnable trousers! Bloody hell, this bloody century and their bloody customs…"

In the end, Abbie pays for three pairs of jeans and five shirts for Crane because he still has no money of his own. "You owe me," she tells him as they walk toward the exit. People gawk at the tall weirdo in 18th century clothes—he refused to wear the new clothes out of the store—pointing and giggling. Crane seems to have stopped noticing the attention. Or he thinks it's a weird 21st century custom to snap photos of strangers with your phone without asking permission.

He glances around at all of the Christmas decorations before replying. "I thank you for your generosity. Although I am partial to these clothes, I realize that I must seem an odd personage to most people. I shall repay you most promptly."

Abbie smiles. "You're welcome, Crane. And don't worry about the money. It's my gift."

Crane smiles at her and she has to look away. Oh, she's in deep and she knows it but for now she just won't think about it. Easier to just avoid the subject. She's good at avoiding.

It's not until they're driving away that Crane asks, confusion lacing his voice. "What, exactly, is a 'hipster'?"

* * *

A/N: I have no idea what I'm doing. Also, this was inspired by gingerhaze's adorable comics on Tumblr.


	2. 2 - Crane vs Birth Control Pills

Ichabod Crane vs. the 21st Century

#2 - Crane vs. Birth Control Pills

Abbie is looking at her phone and walking at the same time and ends up colliding with Crane. Her bag—nothing fancy, just good for carrying her wallet, keys, phone, a few random tubes of lip balm—bounces off of Crane's chest and spills out onto the floor of the archive room.

"Shit, Crane, sorry," she says absently as she bends to gather up her things.

He also bends down from his great height—why is this guy so damn tall?—and begins helping her. "I apologize, Miss Mills. I was distracted…" His voice trails off as he picks up an item.

Abbie looks up and realizes what he's holding. She'd forgotten she'd thrown them in her bag today because she didn't know when she'd be home tonight and she has to take one at 8:00 every day and oh shit—

Crane flips over the foil packet of pills, frowning. "Miss Mills, what is this contraption? Is this some type of medicine?"

Abbie restrains herself from covering her face with her hands. She tries to stay calm. "Yeah, they're my pills," she replies a little more sharply than intended. "Can I have them back?"

Crane frowns. He looks from the pills to her face. "Are you ill? Why would you need—" he counts them— "28 pills?"

"Crane—"

He's getting agitated. "Miss Mills, if you are ill you must let me take you to a physician—"

"Crane—"

"Because I cannot imagine why you must needs ingest _so many pills_—"

"Crane—"

"And if you are ill I am certain there is someone within this century—"

"CRANE. I AM NOT ILL. THOSE ARE MY BIRTH CONTROL PILLS."

His mouth shuts with a snap. But Abbie knows him too well now. He can't let a question drop. "Birth…control…?"

Abbie snatches the packet from his hand and stuffs it into her bag. "Yes, birth control pills. I take them so I can have sex with men without getting pregnant. Now can we go?"

Abbie has never seen Crane incapable of speech. His mouth shuts, opens, shuts. His face turns the reddest she's ever seen in her life. He coughs. "Um…"

"That's what I thought. Come on."

On the ride to drop him off at Corbin's cabin, Crane doesn't say a word.

* * *

A/N: Somebody send help.


	3. 3 - Crane vs Kittens

Ichabod Crane vs. the 21st Century

#3 - Crane vs. Kittens

"Miss Mills, is that a cat I see?"

Abbie sees the cat sitting on her brand new couch. "Goddammit, cat!" she yells as she shoos the animal off. It makes a soft hissing sound before flouncing off into a corner. "It's Corbin's stupid cat," she mutters by way of explanation when Crane raises an eyebrow. "No one else wanted it, okay?"

Crane raises another eyebrow. "I am certainly no stranger to the existence of felines, but never felines living amongst people. Cats belong out-of-doors."

Abbie sighs. "Yeah, well, cats live _in-of-doors _in this century. At least part-time. Speaking of which…" She picks up the cat—Big Tuna, Corbin stupidly named him—and takes him to the front door and tosses him outside. "He can go outside now. Off of my brand-new furniture."

Big Tuna, a large gray cat, simply curls up on the welcome mat before taking a nap.

* * *

"Miss Mills, does that cat seem larger than it was a month ago?"

Abbie glances up from the bag of groceries she's unpacking and eyes the cat lounging on the back of her couch. She's given up keeping him off of it. Fucking cats. Big Tuna's fat seems to be hanging further down the sides of the couch. He's switching his tail back and forth, back and forth, as if he knows he's being spoken of. "How would I know, Crane? He's a cat. Cats get fat."

Crane frowns and approaches the cat. He's stopped talking about how cats_ are not supposed to reside indoors_ but usually doesn't engage Big Tuna. Cats indoors for Crane is rather like having a goat sleep in your bed. But with all Abbie has seen lately, a goat sleeping in her bed would be the least of her problems.

Crane unfurls his fingers in front of Big Tuna's nose. The cat's eyes slit open and he takes in the scent. It's a few second of silence—Abbie's holding her breath as she knows Big Tuna is fond of using his claws—before Big Tuna opens his eyes completely and rubs his cheek against Crane's fingers. Abbie's jaw drops. That fucking traitor cat! He only ever growls at her.

Crane gently pets the cat's head before stroking down his body. Abbie approaches and hears Big Tuna purring. She's never heard him purr before. It's a few more minutes of stroking and petting before Crane picks up the cat. Abbie's about to tell him to stop, but Big Tuna melts in Crane's arms like putty (or a tuna melt sandwich, Abbie thinks wryly).

Crane frowns again. "Miss Mills, I believe—" He feels the cat's abdomen. "This cat is breeding."

Abbie's brain takes a moment to process the announcement. "Breeding—wait, are you saying this fucking cat is _pregnant? _IT'S A GODDAMN BOY, CRANE."

Crane sniffs, both at her language and her disbelief. "I believe that your sheriff was mistaken in its gender." He sets the cat back down on the floor, but Big Tuna slithers around Crane's ankles in complete adoration. He—she?—purrs like a motor.

Abbie slaps a hand to her forehead. "Oh my God, the last thing I need. Not only do I have a time-traveling Revolutionary soldier in my house but MULTIPLE FUCKING CATS."

"There's no need to swear, Miss Mills."

* * *

Abbie makes Crane put Big Tuna in a crate so she can take him/her/it to the vet. The vet declares Crane was correct and that Big Tuna shall deliver three-four kittens within a few weeks. "And when she has delivered," the vet intones with asperity, "return her so we may get her spayed."

Abbie has to stop herself from punching him.

It's a few weeks later when Abbie can't find the stupid cat anywhere. She looks in the highest spots and the lowest corners, under beds, over couches, even outside in case the cat got out. It's only hours later that she finds Big Tuna curled up in her basket of clean laundry—in a corner of her closet—with four tiny kittens with her. Abbie just sighs at the realization that her clothes are now covered in cat birth goo.

* * *

Crane fucking loves these cats, Abbie discovers later. "We never had cats indoors—Katrina would hardly allow me to have a hound inside—but I can understand why people in this century would desire to do so."

He's on the floor of Abbie's living room with a feather stick, making the kittens run in circles. Three of the kittens are gray like Big Tuna, but one somehow managed to come out bright white. They're bouncing off of his legs and pouncing on the feather and rolling around with each other, kicking each other in the face before racing off into the apartment. Big Tuna oversees the shenanigans with a smug grin, her tail flicking.

"Crane, I'm going to run to the store—" She's about to ask if he wants anything, but now he's flat on the floor and wiggling his fingers at the kittens. She will not smile, by God. "Never mind," she mutters before grabbing her bag to leave.

* * *

She returns an hour later and doesn't see Crane or the cats anywhere. Setting the bags down on her kitchen table, she wanders into the living room and peers over the couch, only to see Crane stretched out upon it, fast asleep. He's covered in cats. One kitten has curled up under his chin, one on his shoulder, two on his chest, and Big Tuna has curled up on his stomach. Abbie just shakes her head.

* * *

Abbie gives away the three gray kittens to good homes, but Crane keeps the white one. "It can get rather solitary in the cabin," he says by way of explanation. The kitten, which he has named Bianca, likes to sit on her master's shoulder as he walks around. Right now her tiny white paws hang over his shoulder, and Crane absently strokes her as he wanders around the cabin.

Abbie can't help but smile now.

* * *

Crane + kittens? YES PLEASE.


End file.
